By Chris Ryan
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Extra info for Mission Two: The Rock: Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target
He raked his eyes across the porch. Lights went off in the reception. They have to be out back. Gardner found the perimeter wall, a four-foot-high block of whitewashed brickwork. He placed his weapon on the top of the wall and used both hands to lift himself up and over. At the rear of the villa, waves lapped against a deck fronting the beach. He stopped to recce the deck. Light poured out from a sliding door, colouring the ink-blot landscape. Chairs stood around a metal table littered with three plates of mauled chicken wings and opened Coke cans.
Gill grunted. Time hadn’t been kind to the ex-Para. His muscles were flabby, his pecs drooping halfway to man-boobs. Love handles sloped out at his sides. His ginger hair was thinning, the whites of his eyes grey and dull. ’ Gardner asked. ’ Gill glimpsed the Glock lying two metres behind him. He has any bright ideas, the walls get a fresh lick of paint. A click to Gardner’s six o’clock. The noise distracted him and he half-turned, spotting a woman in his peripheral vision as she ran out of her room.
She could hardly breathe as John fucked her. But she knew if she resisted, he’d only tighten his grip. She let him do his worst. He fucked her hard and his grip only loosened when he finally came inside her. Three minutes that felt more like thirty. She got through it by picturing herself disappearing out that hotel door and into the night, fifty grand in her back pocket. A new life. The bed sighed as he rolled off her. Then she heard the jangle of his belt buckle as he slipped on his jeans. ‘I need to go,’ she said, her voice cracking like thin ice.
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